Digital Panem
by fina5
Summary: Catherine Roys and all who she knows and love have been ripped from reality and taken to a digital version of Panem. She can most likely never leave. She couldn't even leave if she won the Hunger Games, and yet she finds herself volunteering for it anyway; for her best friend. Her friend Mark is also a tribute, and she doesn't want him to die. But who are the other tributes?
1. Reaped

**I do not own The Hunger Games.**

* * *

My name is Catherine Roys. I live in hell. Or shall I say, _digital_ hell.

Allow me to explain.

The series, _The Hunger Games_, has been brought to life in the most horrible of ways. There were a group of snooty, rich adults that decided that they should send people into a digital reality of Suzanne Collin's, _The Hunger Games_.

Now, she is not to blame. In fact, she objected to this horrible idea. But she, unfortunately, was over powered.

They made a digital Panem. With the 12 districts and the Capitol. "They" are the Gamemakers. They control Digital Panem and the Hunger Games. I hate them. I believe that they should all die in the most horrible of ways.

The reason I hate them so much is because I live in Digital Panem. And they dragged my friends and my family with me.

Today is the Reaping for the Hunger Games. This is the second year. Last year our tributes both died. One was a Bloodbath, stabbed through the heart. The other had his head cut off by that year's victor. Maggie and Stanley were their names. I never really knew them, so I didn't grieve. But Maggie's mother killed herself. And the worst part: even if your child dies, you can't leave Digital Panem. You can't return to flesh and blood; just 1s and 0s. Stuck. Here.

The only way you can leave is if a tribute from your district wins the Hunger Games. I live in District Twelve, so some kids just die from hunger here. Last year's victor, Richard is his name, was from District 2. His district went back to the real, living world. Unfortunately, he had to stay. Victors can never leave.

We're all here for a reason: the Reaping of the Schools. That's the convenient way the Gamemakers got us all here.

This is how it happened:

They made a nationwide announcement that they were going to take 12 schools – 6 middle schools and 6 high schools – to fill up the Districts. The Capitol would be filled by rich people that paid enough, the Gamemakers, and the President would be the Head Gamemaker, Jonah Crimmons.

Two weeks later, we sat in Paul Revere Middle School's auditorium, watching the big screen, waiting to see who would be reaped. We all knew that in less than an hour, the student body, and their families, of twelve schools in the U.S. would vanish.

Crimmons took chose 6 high schools first. Then he chose the middle schools.

"Beck Middle School in New Jersey."

_Gone._

"Sacajawea Middle School in Montana."

_Poof._

"West Millbrook Middle School in North Carolina."

_Vanished._

"Douglas Middle School in South Dakota."

_Missing._

We held our breaths, hoping we wouldn't be chosen.

We were not very lucky.

"Paul Revere Middle School in California." Then, within the next two seconds, we felt the cells in are body being torn apart, turning into 1s and 0s. We were being ripped through reality. Taken from earth to hell. Just like that.

These are the rules:

The families of the children that are reaped in the Reaping of the Schools must go with them to Digital Panem.

If your child dies, no matter the cause, you cannot return to Reality unless a tribute from your district wins the Hunger Games.

Even if you pass the eligible age to compete in the Hunger Games, you and your family cannot leave.

Victors can never leave Digital Panem.

Victors can decide if their families stay with them in Digital Panem.

There are no tesserae. If you starve, you die.

If you have children, they live in Digital Panem too. Just because you're pregnant, doesn't mean you can have decent health for your baby.

Babies borne in Digital Panem cannot ever live in Reality. Flesh and blood can turn into 1s and 0s, but 1s and 0s cannot turn into flesh and blood.

Siblings of the children reaped in the Reaping of the Schools that are eligible for the Hunger Games are entered in the Reapings for the Hunger Games

Boys are reaped for the Hunger Games first.

Only three groups of visitors are allowed to see the tributes.

A tribute cannot see the tributes from the other districts.

Today, I am fourteen, a would-be eighth grader. I stand before the Justice Building in District Twelve, waiting for this dreadful Reaping to be over. The likeliness of me being chosen is slim. I'm three pieces of paper in thousands. Surely I'll be fine. My sister, who is nine, isn't even in the Reapings. I don't have to worry about her turning into Primrose Everdeen.

Our district escort, Marie Albert, walks onto the stage. She sits in a chair set up for her next to the principal and the deans from my school. My principal, Mrs. Phillips, walks to the microphone and says a few words. Everybody has a grim expression on his or her face, except Marie. She's smiling like it's going out of style. She wouldn't care if we all died. All she wants is pink hair and blue jewels imbedded in her skin, and lucky for her, she has that.

Mrs. Phillips goes and sits down, and Marie takes her place.

"Hello everybody! Isn't this a wonderful day for the Reaping?" Marie says. No one answers her verbally, but everyone's face says, "No. No it is not."

"Well, no point in wasting time." She walks over to the glass ball with the boys' names in it. She reaches into the glass ball and pulls out a slip. "Mark Cronnis."

I swallow a scream. No, not Mark. Mark has been one of my best friends since I was nine. He can't die. I can't _watch_ him die.

He walks onto the stage. His dark hair and tan skin glistens under the sun. Marie asks for volunteers. No one volunteers. A stray tear escapes my eye, but I wipe it away before it can pass my lips.

"Now for the ladies!" says Marie. She walks to the girls' glass ball and sticks her hand in, her manicured fingers prying for another victim. She pulls out the slip. "Jessica Matthews." I let out a sigh of relief. I don't have to die this year.

Then the name registers in my mind. Jessica Matthews. My very best friend.

I look to my left to find Jessica staring back at me with a look of total shock and horror. She starts to make her way towards the stage and all I can think is _Do not volunteer. You will die. Do not be a Katniss Everdeen._ But when I see her standing on the stage, with her little figure that is sure to get her killed, I can't help myself. Marie asks for a volunteer and I raise my hand. Jessica's eyes go wide when she sees my arm in the air. I start walking towards the stage, keeping my eye contact with Jessica. We brush shoulders while I climb the stairs and she bursts into tears. Some Peacekeepers pick her up, but once she realizes she's six feet off the ground she starts kicking and screaming. As punishment the Peacekeepers drop her on the ground. Everyone is in such shock that no one is speaking, and that is why we can all hear the distinct _crack_ of her bone. Another tear runs down my face, this one for the fact that I will never know which bone broke. Once I stand on the stage, I look to Marie. The look on her face shows that she has no care for what just happened, she's just thrilled that there is a volunteer tribute. What a joy.

"What is your name?" she asks me. I think about lying, but know it will do me no good. The Gamemakers have everyone in Digital Panem registered, if I lie, they'll shoot me where I stand.

"Catherine Roys." Yes, Catherine Roys, that's me. Blonde hair, green eyes, fair skin. That is I. But I wish it wasn't.

Mark and I shake hands and Marie says the signature: "May the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

And just like that, I'm Katniss Everdeen.


	2. Blackout

**I do not own The Hunger Games.  
**

**Sorry for the late update.  
**

**Enjoy!  
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* * *

The room where I will last see my family and friends, except for Mark, is the fanciest thing I've seen in person for over a year. The room is exactly the way the book described it: velvet, super-plush carpets; and the walls also happen to be made of a deep, brown-coloured wood. But I am not sitting on that couch. No matter how comfortable it looks.

I've been waiting here for five minutes, yet no one has come to see me. Does no one care? Does it not matter to anyone that I'll be dead in a week? Or are my friends just visiting Mark first? Yeah, that would explain it. But where is my family?

And that's when the door opens. My mother and sister walk through the door. But where is my father? My sister, Laura, runs to me, throws her arms around my waist, and buries her face into my chest. She's crying her eyes out, which is probably getting my only good blouse all wet. But do I care? No. I comb through her hair with my fingers and pat her on the back. I look up to see my mother, and she's silently sobbing, her eyes like waterfalls. I open my arms and gesture for her to join us, and she does.

I wish we had more than a few minutes, but we don't. I pull back. My mother speaks first, "We love you, sweetie. And we think it was very good of you to volunteer for Jessica."

"But it was stupid!" my sister yells. I almost laugh, but I'm too sure of my death to enjoy anything. She starts to cry again. "You're gonna die." she says to the floor.

"But you will be fine." I say. I never sugarcoat anything. And I know that I am going to die, so I just said it. Perhaps it will be easier that way. "I'm sure Mark will win. He's sixteen and strong, and since he's from this district you'll get to go back to the real–"

"But I wanna go back with you!" She falls into my arms again and continues to cry. My mother pats my frizzy hair down and smiles sadly at me.

"Catherine, I know what those books said about the victors and all, but don't you want to live? Even if it's a little sad sometimes?"

I consider this, but I know the answer already. I don't want to live knowing that I could never leave this hell and that Mark would probably be dead because of me. I shake my head. We go back into a group hug until a Peacekeeper opens the door and grabs my mother and sister. Laura screams and tries to resist, while I just stand glued to the floor, watching them go. I blow Laura a kiss and wave at her. "I love you guys." My mother manages a smile at me. Then the door closes. That was the last my little sister will ever see of me, and it was so stoic. I wish I was more tender and loving. Stupid personality! Always getting in the way of other people's… well, I can't call this happiness.

A minute later my friends enter the room. All of them are here, except for Jessica. There's Percy, Darla, Phillip, Nellcis, and Trinton. Marclene would be here to but she died of starvation two months after we arrived in Digital Panem, and the scary part was, she was the biggest fan of the Hunger Games out of all of us.

They all stand there awkwardly until Darla said, "Hey, Caths. We, uh, came to see you off." And then Nellcis burst out crying. In silent agreement we all came to group hug and us three girls started crying like babies. Percy, Phillip, and Trinton were upset too and were squeezing us really tight, but we don't care.

After a few minutes, we pull apart from each other. Then they all start talking at once. I hear the words, "win" and "Jessica" get thrown around a few times, but I can't I can't really distinguish what they're saying at all.

I wave my arms over my head like a child trying to get her parents to stop fighting. "Whoa, you guys. Not all at once."

"You've gotta win Caths." Percy says. "Either you or Mark has got to win." He smiles and I ruffle up his hair like he's a little puppy.

"Yeah," Trinton steps forward. "And when you have to wear that stupid, glorified Halloween costume for the Tribute Parade, just hold your head up high and say, 'Back off you jerk-offs! I'm gonna win the Hunger Games!'" We all laugh and it almost seems as if we're just hanging out, until the Peacekeeper walks in. The smiles leave our faces and even Phillip sniffles a bit. "We love you, Catherine." Trinton manages.

"Love you all too." I sadly chirp.

They all exit the door without resistance, except Percy. He backs up saying, "Wait," The Peacekeeper tries pushing him out the door, and by that time he's thrashing wildly. Nellcis has to yank by the arm to get him going. The door closes.

That's when I collapse on the small couch. I break down crying and screaming at the fact that I am going to die while everyone I have ever loved watches. I pull at my hair and stomp my feet to get my anger out at Crimmons for his stupid idea, but it's not enough! How could he ship a whole bunch of people to what is practically another realm and kill off them and their children? He's worse than Hitler. He's worse than Stalin. He's worse than Snow. I don't even know what kind of crap he's done to Richard from District 2. I don't even want to think about it.

"Get off the floor," I hear someone order me. I expect to see a Peacekeeper, but when I look up, I see my father.

I jump up immediately. "Daddy!" I fall into his arms and continue to weep. He pats down my hair and kisses me on the head. "I thought you weren't coming." I mumble into his jacket.

He pushes me back far enough to look at me. "Why would you think that?" he asks. I shrug. His face takes on a serious expression. "Now you listen to me, you are going to win those Games."

"But, Dad–"

"No buts. You kill as many of those tributes as possible. I want you coming out alive. Not in a wooden box." I stop crying out of shock. My parents had raised me to be caring and not to hurt people. And now my dad was telling me to just kill a bunch of people? What is happening?

"But what about Mark?" I feebly mumble. I can't kill Mark. I'd end up crazier than Annie Cresta.

My dad seems to consider this, like actually think about it. After a minute that felt like hours he finally says, "You can let someone else kill him." I give a strangled gasp, but my father doesn't even flinch. Then his expression changes, he looks like a loving father now instead of a war general. "I love you, Catherine. I hope you live."

Not believing what I'm hearing, I numbly give him a hug and say, "I love you too." Then he leaves, without even being told to leave by Crimmons' minions. I stand there dumbfounded for a few minutes until two Peacekeepers escort me out. They lead me out of the Justice Building and eventually I meet up with Mark and his Peacekeepers. I don't dare to look at him. Marie starts to walk ahead of us then and she takes us to train. We walk up the steps and then rush to the windows. All I can see is the beat up District 12. No family. No friends. Just the backdrop to this perfect day.

* * *

After arriving on the train, I was sent to my room. I've been here for three hours. I went through all the drawers in the room, except the locked ones. I found tons of clothes, most of them quite stylish actually, but I didn't change into any of them. I didn't even change into the shoes in the closet that I found, even though those actually fit me unlike the only shoes I own. I passed out on the bed for an hour and woke up screaming from a nightmare I can't remember. Then I threw all the vases in the room at the window, seeing if it would break. It didn't. After that I started crying again. Then I tapped Morse code on the wall to see if someone would answer. No one did.

I started practicing as much Kung Fu as I could remember from the real world about five minutes ago. I set up for the dropkick. I take a step, jump, and plan on kicking my imaginary opponent, but end falling on and twisting my ankle instead.

I just sit on the floor helplessly for a few minute until a Peacekeeper walks in. I back up against the wall farthest from him, but he comes over to me wordlessly anyway and hauls me up by the arm. He drags me through the door, the hallway, a few more doors, and finally pushes me down onto a couch. Seconds later, Mark walks through the door and plops himself down next to me. The rude Peacekeeper that manhandled me leaves the room. I turn my head to look at Mark for the first time since we were reaped. He looks completely aghast. His eyes are bloodshot, his lips are cracked, and he's extremely pale. But of course, he's more worried about me. "You okay?" he asks.

The sarcasm just starts spilling out of me. "Oh, I'm fine. I just had what was left of my life torn away from me and got harassed by about six Peacekeepers. But I think I'm still up for that movie you wanted to see."

He shakes his head. "Yeah, we were gonna see a movie the Saturday after the Reaping of the Schools, weren't we? We even pre-ordered the tickets." He gives a short, bitter laugh. All that is true, and now I wish I hadn't brought it up.

"Yup. What a waste of twenty bucks." I remark. He wraps me in a tight hug then, and I really need it. I can't go on hugging myself forever. Or at least, for the next week at the most. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and force myself not to cry again.

When we part we see Mr. Jenkins, our school's discipline dean, sitting in a chair across from us. "Hello, Mark. And…" He looks at me pointedly because he still can't remember my name. I used to get sent to his office nearly every week and he still can't remember my name? I'm surprised I didn't get expelled. I wish I had got expelled.

I sigh in exasperation. "Catherine. My name is Catherine." And this guy is going to be my mentor? I'm so going to be a Bloodbath.

"Right, Catherine." Mr. Jenkins says. "Mark and Catherine. My two tributes." He smiles at us, but it's not very reassuring.

"So," Mark leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "Any advice?"

Mr. Jenkins scratches the back of his neck, and squints his eyes in effort to come up with anything intelligent to say. I personally think that he's got nothing, but then he surprises me. "Well, you want to stay away from the Cornucopia. All the tributes want to take out District Twelve first because of what happened in the books. You want to go to high land, try to find a water source nearby, and be able to kill things, like squirrels and ducks, or, you know, other tributes." That's when it really hits me. I'm going into the Hunger Games. I have to live off whatever freak environment Crimmons sends us to for a few hours, or hopefully days, and then die. I have to kill other people. I can't even kill bees!

Mark pokes me on the arm. "Are you okay? You look like you're gonna throw up." I just barely nod my head before I grab the ice bucket and, he guessed it, throw up in it.

I gingerly put the top back on it and put it on the floor, "Yeah," I say quietly, "We're gonna need some more ice." I hear Mark laugh, but it sounds distant, like we're underwater. A horrible pounding starts in my ears, and I begin to wonder if we really are under water. I hold my breathe, just in case. Black spots dance in my eyes, and I feel like I'm falling, falling, falling. . . .

And then the carpet, the walls, the couch, they all go black.

* * *

My eyes open. There's a man in a lab coat standing over me. I start to wonder about what's happening. Maybe he's a mad scientist and I'm his test subject. Maybe he sent me through a stage of horrible hallucinations, and I just imagined Digital Panem. Yeah, that makes sense. I'm probably just at the science lab at school, and I'll go home in a few minutes. Yes, this all makes perfect sense.

"Well," the mad scientist says, "Look who's finally awake. You've been out for about a day. You didn't take any drugs, so I'm quite curious as to how you managed to pass out for that long. Do you have some sort of medical condition?" He goes on asking questions and making comments for a while, but doesn't stop for me to add anything. His rambling begins to annoy me.

I interrupt his thought on my drinking problem. "Uh, can I go home now?"

He gives me an amused look. "Oh, I get it. You thought that if you managed to nearly kill yourself, we'd let you go back into Reality." He laughs, as though something is funny. "That's cute. Anyway, we'll be arriving in the Capitol in a few hours."

After he turns around and leaves the room. I realize that I'm in my room on the train. Which means that Digital Panem is real, and I will not being going home. This has by far been the biggest let down since I got on this death mobile. I sit up and get out of my bed. And then my arms get really itchy. I try scratching at them, but if feels like I'm scratching plastic. When I look down, it turns out that I am, in fact, scratching plastic. Both my arms are covered in patches. Each patch is a different colour and says nutritional patch on it. I pull off the pink one first. A thousand pinpricks seem to be pulled off along with it, but it doesn't hurt too badly. It leaves a big red square behind on my skin, but I'm not bleeding. I pull off the blue one next. Then the green one, then the orange one. After my arms are free of the patches, the floor near me looks like a plastic rainbow that got shot out of the sky.

The door opens, and Mark comes in. "Hey," he says. "You're up." He smiles, but then he frowns when he looks at the littering of plastic at my feet. He points at the patches. "What are those?"

"They're nutritional patches. They were on my arms when I woke up. Anyway, what happened?"

He shrugs. "Don't know. One minute you were fine, the next you were unconscious. It was a little scary frankly." He walks over to me and throws his arm around my shoulder. "I thought I wasn't gonna have an ally in the Games."

"Oh, gee. Thanks for your concern." I remark. He squeezes my shoulder and leads me out of the room.

We go to the room where I passed out yesterday and sit down at the dining table. On one of the trays at the center of the table I see a gourmet sandwich. I suddenly become very hungry. I grab the sandwich and begin to scarf it down. After about a minute, all that remains of the submarine are a few measly crumbs.

I hear a sound of disgust. I look up to see Marie frowning at me wryly. She wags a bleached finger at me. "A lady should not eat in such a fashion." I roll my eyes at her, because really, who needs an etiquette lesson approximately four days before they die?

Mark begins to laugh hysterically. He falls out of his chair, and pounds on the floor with his fist. I begin to laugh too, but I end up snorting instead. This only makes Marie look at me with even more disdain, and that ends up making me shriek with laughter.

"ENOUGH!" Mark and I look up to see who roared at us, and are disappointed to see a seriously ticked off Peacekeeper. Mark gets up off the floor and sits back in his chair. He takes my hand.

The Peacekeeper's next words chill me to my core. "We've arrived in the Capitol."


	3. Smoke

**I do not own The Hunger Games.**

* * *

Mark and I slowly walk to the windows. I press my face against the cool glass, and all I can see is a world of colour. The things the people are wearing are insane. There's bright pink, green, blue, purple, and so many more. All the people seem unnaturally pale, as if they couldn't decide as to whether they should enter the world of _Twilight_ or _The Hunger Games_.

I see other trains around the forum the Capitol people look to be standing in. I figure that they must be containing the other tributes.

A Peacekeeper then grabs me by the arm and puts sunglasses that I can't see out of over my eyes. I feel what I hope is Mark's hand on my shoulder. "Um, why did you put anti-seeing goggles on our faces?" I hear him ask. "Oh, and who's shoulder am I holding?"

I aim to flick him on the forehead in response, but I hit his mouth instead.

"You're wearing these so that you can't see the other tributes." Marie exclaims in a too-cheery tone.

"Wait," I start. "You mean, we're really never allowed to see the other tributes?"

Marie answers as if she were singing. "Not until the Hunger Games." Wow, this world just went to a whole other level of stupid. If we can't examine the other tributes beforehand, how will we know whom to kill? And what if we know some of the other tributes since we're all originally from Reality? Now I understand why everyone goes after our District first; they don't get to see how weak we are due to brutal starvation!

I feel Mark's hand slip from my shoulder and someone gripping my left bicep really tightly. My guess is that it's a Peacekeeper, and not the ice-cream man. I hear a door open, and a wave of hot air hits me like a wall. I'm forced down some stairs that I nearly trip on, but the Peacekeeper roughly steadies me. I continue walking for a while without any general knowledge of as to where I'm going. I could be walking straight to my death and I wouldn't know.

Oh, wait, silly me, I'm already doing that.

I hear a loud ding, and am shoved forward, accidentally running straight into a wall headfirst. And let me tell you, for a girl that had just been unconscious for 23 hours, that is not good. When I regain my balance, someone is taking off my goggles. I open my eyes to the interior of an elevator. Mark, Marie, and Mr. Jenkins are all here with me. Marie is holding two pairs of goggles, Mark is violently rubbing his eyes, and Mr. Jenkins is picking at his fingernails.

I sigh in contempt. A screen on the wall next to me says that we're currently passing the seventh floor on our way to the twelfth. I lean back against the wall and wait for the door to open. When the door finally does open, the room I see before is even more lavish than the train, and that train was _nice_. The rugs scattered across the room are all a deep red, there are super comfy-looking couches of blue, green, orange, and pink set up around a 64-inch TV, and a huge dining room table completely made out of crystal-clear glass.

Marie turns me towards the stairs. "Come on, dear. I'll take you to your room." We walk up the stairs, turn into a small hall, and Marie opens the first door on the right. I step inside and I instantly feel a pang of sadness. This room looks almost exactly like a hotel room my family and I stayed in once. It has the same queen-sized bed with a green blanket over it, dark blue walls, a mirror that covers an entire wall, and a purple dresser. The only difference is that it has a bright pink carpet. I don't know if the Gamemakers did this on purpose to psych me out, but it's working.

"–An hour." Marie was saying.

"Sorry, what was that?" I ask with embarrassment heating up my cheeks.

"You'll only have an hour in here until the Tribute Parade, so I suggest that you take a shower so that your prep team won't have too much work." I nod at her as if that didn't offend me and say that I'll get right to it. After she leaves the room I grab some extra clothes from the dresser and head into the bathroom. I take a long, hot shower and try very hard to get all the dirt off of me, but that's difficult after a year of only bathing in extremely cold water once a week with a piece of wax for soap. After my shower I brush my teeth, like, five times. In District 12, no one brushed his or her teeth. Ever. I mean really, it's disgusting. Crimmons really just left our District to crap, and doesn't seem to care. I suppose he's trying to break our spirit so that what happened in the book won't happen here, but actually, it just enhances our momentous want to murder him violently. I put on the clothes I got from the dresser and frown at my exposed cleavage. I really tried to find something that wasn't gaudy, but it looks as though even the most conservative thing here is slutty.

I exit the bathroom to find Marie standing in the middle of my room with an expression of annoyance. "We are going to be late," she says without her usual cheery tone. "Come on." She turns and heads out the door without watching to see if I'll follow, but I do anyway.

I enter the living room to see Mark in a white dress shirt and brown corduroy pants. He looks to be trying to pick something off of his pants, but is not succeeding. I go to stand next to him and he looks up to greet me. Then he does a double take. He points at my chest and raises an eyebrow at me. "It was the least slinky thing I could find." I say in explanation.

He shrugs. "I'm not complaining." He waggles his eyebrows at me in a joking manner. I elbow him in the gut, which I can do, since I'm so short, another reason as to why I'll die in the Hunger Games.

Mr. Jenkins doesn't even look up when he says, "Mark, quit teasing Cassandra."

Mark busts out laughing and I stomp my foot in exasperation. What is it with this guy? "My name is Catherine, Mr. Jenkins."

He clears his throat. "Right." I roll my eyes because I know that this is not going to be the last time he calls me by something other than my actual name. I can just see him now, trying to get me sponsors: "Hello, would you like to spare Caitlin some matches?"

The odds are truly not in my favor.

Marie ushers us into the elevator, and we begin to descend.

* * *

I'm now standing in a small room with bright florescent lighting, all alone, waiting for what will hopefully be a _female_ stylist. My skin still burns from the several thorough waxes and odd skin creams that my prep team gave me. They dyed my hair to a very bright blonde, as if dirty blonde wasn't enough, and plucked my eyebrows to a point that I'm not even sure I have any anymore. All I'm wearing is a hospital scrub that goes down to my knees.

I know that I'm going to have to wear something coal-related since I'm from District 12. And yes, I know what you're thinking; Crimmons did in fact make our parents work in a coalmine even though he could've just generated coal from his super-computer that created this whole world in this first place.

I'm disappointed when a short, white-haired man with very high cheekbones enters the room. His face has a warm pink glow to it, and for a second I wonder if he dyed his skin that colour. He looks at me from a distance for a moment, as if to wonder how much work I'm going to take. He says, "You're much prettier than that Amanda girl last year." I nod at him and wonder who Amanda is until I realize he's talking about Maggie.

Great, another person who won't remember my name.

"Now, if you'll just remove the scrub suit, and we'll get started." I notice that he has a very nasally voice, and I add that to the list of why he pisses me off.

Then I get nervous. I do _not_ want to take my clothes off in front of this guy. Luckily enough, my prep team consists of only women. Therefore, no guys have seen me naked except for like, my dad, but I was seven. But now I'm fourteen, I'm not related to this guy, and I have boobs, and it's not like my cup size is A or B.

Of course, it's not like I have much of a choice. I untie the triple-knot that I put in the scrub and let it fall to the floor. I look straight forward, making certain not to make eye contact with this dude, and silently chide myself for not letting my hair grow long enough to cover up my chest. He inspects me; quite thoroughly might I add, but thankfully does not touch me. I'm hoping that he's one of those fashion guys that can tell measurements without actually having to take measurements. I'm also hoping that he's gay.

"Alright," he squeaks. "You can put the scrub back on." I gratefully scoop up the garment and hastily put it on.

My stylist begins to tap his pen incessantly on a clipboard. "Now, I'm thinking that we should put you in a sleeveless, see-through mini-dress, speckled with coal dust. What do you think?"

My cheeks turn red out of horrified embarrassment and my eyes go wide at the thought of all of Digital Panem and whoever decided to turn to Channel 234 (the channel for Digital Panem) in Reality seeing me half-naked. "W-well, do you think that, um, maybe we could try a different approach? Like, um, it could be a non-see-through dress, with sleeves, that goes down to my knees, and is speckled in glitter that looks like coal dust?" I pathetically suggest.

He furrows his eyebrows, and for a moment I wonder if he's going to completely reject my idea. Instead, he smiles. "How about we make a compromise, eh? The dress will be a light grey, with straps, speckled with coal dust and black glitter, and will go down to about eight inches above your knees. Does that sound better?" I nod with satisfaction. He opens up a closet and pulls out a folding chair and hands it to me. He tells me to sit in it while he gets the dress ready and then he leaves the room.

Roughly three hours later, I'm all decked out in a dress that looks like smoke. The dress ends right under my butt, has a V-neck that goes down to my bellybutton, and has a fishnet train that nearly touches the floor. The straps are so thin, that I wouldn't be surprised if they were just two pieces of thread. But what really ticks me off, is that the fabric that the dress is made of is so papery thin, that's it's see-through! And the all the glitter and coal dust did was make it so it's not too obvious.

So, basically, my stylist has tricked me.

My makeup was done with dark colours, and I totally have the whole smoky-eye-shadow-thing going on. My stylist, who's name turns out to be Fredrik, also thought to make me look taller, and so put me in four-inch heels with spikes on them. And, yes, they do hurt.

As I'm walking over to the District Twelve chariot, I nearly trip eighteen times. On the nineteenth time, Mark catches me. "Whoa." he says after getting a good look at me. "You look like a prostitute."

I snarl and stomp my foot in anger, which only hurts my ankle more. "I know! My stylist totally tricked me." I take in his outfit then, and immediately I envy him. He has on long, white dress pants, a white dress shirt that's opened to the third button, and a grey jacket with coal dust sprinkled on the shoulders. "Ugh, I hate you. Your outfit is so much better than mine."

He pulls on the collar of the jacket and puts an arrogant look on his face. "I know." I roll my eyes.

Marie comes in the room to tell us that it's show time and to get on the chariot. Mark gets on, no problem. I on the other hand nearly fall when I try to get on. Mark has to help me up because I refuse to have Fredrik touch me. Mark and I put our hands to our sides and try to wipe the expressions of sheer terror from our faces. We have to go onto the road all by ourselves since we aren't allowed to see the other tributes, so all the attention is going to be focused on us. And with this dress, I'm going to get certain unwanted attention.

The doors of Compartment 12 open up, and the black stallions lurch forward.


	4. Decisions

**I do not own The Hunger Games.**

* * *

The first thing that registers is the roaring crowd. They're on either side of us, wearing extremely tacky and bright colours, and screaming their heads off. I can only imagine what they're thinking, _Oh, look! Another pair of kids about to be put to death! _

Then everything else hits me all at once. Everybody's eyes are on us. I'm forced to keep my head high and wear a brave expression, along with this awful outfit. I notice Mark trembling beside me, and almost put my hand out to comfort him, but then decide against. I will not be a star-crossed lover.

I hear a few whistles from the male portion of the audience, and refrain from flipping them off. I mean, a blonde in a provocative dress? It's almost as if I'm Cashmere.

I don't notice my shallow breathe until we're halfway down the road, and find myself relieved. The crowd grows quieter, and I realize that neither of us has been waving. So I do so, Queen Elizabeth style. I also glue a smile to my face, trying to make it look as real as possible. The crowd screams in response.

I see Mark starting to wave with a shy smile in the corner of my eye. And by the sound of it, the female portion of the crowd definitely approves. His smile grows even more timid. Oh, I see, he's milking it. That'll get him sponsors, and he'll need them.

We finally reach the end of the road. I see Crimmons looking down at us with little interest, just another group of kids that he's going to murder. I stop myself from drawing my finger under my neck, and instead smile even wider at him, thoughts of killing that arrogant man in my mind as inspiration.

We go through another large opening, and we are alone, save Fredrick, Marie, Mr. Jenkins, and Mark's stylist. I sigh in relief and exhaustion, even though all I did was stand on a chariot. I rip off my stupid shoes and throw them to the opposite side of the compartment, hop of the chariot, and drag myself to the elevator. I hear everybody congratulating Mark, but whenever someone tries to talk to me I wave him or her off. The elevator dings open, I slide in and press Button 12. Mark, Mr. Jenkins, and Marie jump in just before the doors close.

When the doors slide open, I quickly run through our District 12 Suite and into my room. I rip the horrid dress off, cursing profusely. I throw on a long shirt at random, crawl under the heavy covers of my bed, and sink into sleep.

* * *

I hear Marie saying, "Wake up, dear. It is a very exciting day! You'll start training."

That wakes me up.

I sit up in my bed, my hair probably horribly bedraggled, though I don't see why I'd care. I look at Marie with horror. Training? I have to start training? This just pushes my oncoming death right in my face. I don't want to start training. I already know that I'm going to fail at everything. Sword? No. Bow and arrow? No. Spear? No. Magical unicorn horn? No. I am useless.

But I drag myself out of bed anyway. I trudge into the bathroom and notice some dry drool on my chin. Instead of just washing my face, I take a whole shower. If I am going to die, I am going to enjoy the preambular luxuries to it. I exit the bathroom to find my training suit lying on my bed, and quickly put it on. I put on some combat boots I found in the closet.

I find Mark in the super huge living room, pulling on his pant leg, listening to it slap his skin, him giggling, and then repeating it. Why is it that I always see him messing with his pants these days?

"'Sup, Hot Pants!" I say to him, and then mimic his pant-pulling-slash-slapping. He shoots me glare. I laugh. "I'm just kidding. I don't really think you look hot in those pants. I was being nice."

He growls at me, like, literally _growls_. I start to think that being in the Hunger Games is changing him, and become horribly crestfallen. I apologize and look at my shoes until we reach the Training Center.

The first thing I see is Fredrik. You can imagine my disappointment. He pulls me toward a podium and has me stand on it. He pulls up a stool, so to be taller than me, pulls my hair out of its ponytail, and rustles I up a bit. When I ask him why he says, "Well, you want sponsors. Don't you?" with a wink. I nearly vomit. He then tells me that this will be my picture for whenever the show me on television, save my action in the Games.

A photographer comes up and points his camera at me. I choose my pose on impulse. I stand tall, probably making me look a few inches taller than I actually am, ball my fists at my sides, definitely making them look unnaturally pale, put my chin high, and glare ever so slightly, because how much anger do you think I can possibly bury? I hear the photo snap, and then step down slowly, my face still with its hard expression.

Mark takes my place and his stylist does his "magic" on him. That's right, he got a stylist of the same sex and I didn't. Not fair.

Mark tries standing up straight – but slouches a little anyway – and has his eyes wide with fear. I still feel intimidated though, because he's already so tall and has had a permanent scowl since I called him 'Hot Pants'.

The photographer snaps his picture, and he jumps down from the podium. We are then led through a door that leads to the actual Training Center. It's vicious. There are weapons lined up all about the wall, mats, obstacle courses – variations from rope to walls to avoiding fire – and several trainers. The head trainer, whose name is Estil, says that we may do anything we want with the help of the trainers.

I immediately go to station for learning about plants. I learn that moss always grows on the North side of a tree and that it's good for wiping things up. Like blood. I learn about poisonous berries, like the Black Bryony, that watercress leaves are edible, and lots of other survival skills.

Next I go to the fencing station. I'm disarmed in seconds. I give up on that then, despite the trainer's arguments. I go to the wrestling station, and last a good forty-seven seconds against the well-built man who verses me. He tells me that I'll definitely stand a chance against a smaller or unfit opponent, but that I should watch out for any larger or more accommodated to fighting than I.

I approach the knife-throwing station. I throw my first shot and it sticks in the dummy's shoulder. The trainer tells me that this is good, since the shoulder is so close to the heart, but that I should practice more, and so I do. After a good half an hour, I'm able to hit the dummy in the abdomen easily, and with a little more focus, the chest.

Estil tells us that our time is up, and that District Eleven is waiting, so we leave. As we ride up the elevator to Level 12, I reflect on our training period. I think it to have lasted roughly two hours and well spent. I saw Mark thrusting spears or practicing hand-to-hand combat out of the corner of my eye, and it didn't look as though he was massively failing, so that's good.

* * *

After a dinner of lavish proportions, I go to sit at the extremely comfy couch in front of the television in the suite's living room. Mark sits down next to me silently.

"So," He begins sheepishly. "I was thinking that we should discuss our strategy." I look over at him skeptically. "We are in an alliance, right?"

I turn to him. "Of course."

"Okay. Good." He's quiet for a minute, and I can tell that he's carefully deciding on what to say. "So, for the Games, I was thinking that if the arena has a forest, we should hide there and kill anyone that gets too close." I nod absently, my own mind making its own plans. "And if it has water, like, a lot of water, we should swim across it, but only if there's an island or something."

I smile. He really hasn't thought this out much. He's probably depending on me for some brilliant idea just like always.

I shake my head. "No." I state firmly. "This is the plan: You win and I die."


	5. Undeserved Beatings

**I do not own The** **Hunger Games.**

* * *

For a second he just sits on the couch with his mouth completely agape. Then he scowls and stands up quickly, but then sits back down. He does this few more times.

I sit near him, cool and collected, not at all fazed with the thought of my upcoming death. Mark seems to be having trouble though. I made up this plan long ago.

"What do you mean?" he shrieks. His eyes are wide with fear and concern, but I can't bring myself to have any compassion for his sadness. He's the one that gets to live.

"I've told you," I say, standing now. "You are going to be the victor, whether you like it or not." I sound like a mother. I choke back a sob when I realize that that's something I'll never be.

He flails his arms and makes incoherent sounds. It would be funny, but this isn't funny. He suddenly makes hard eye contact with me. He shoves me onto the floor, and then is on top of me, looking completely insane. His hands are gripping my wrists, probably giving them bruises, and pushing them to the floor, making it impossible to use my arms in any useful way. He has one leg pushing down on my knees, and the knee of his other leg digging into my gut. I'm gasping for air and from pain.

"Well, if you're gonna die anyway, why can't I just kill you now?" he asks. He knows the answer: you can't harm other tributes before the Games, but he's asking me anyway because he knows I can't answer him. He's pressing all the air from my lungs.

I gasp pathetically again, and he smiles. I can't believe he's being so cruel. Why would he do this? If he cares so much about my life to go into a psychotic rampage, why is he bruising and suffocating me?

I try moving my shoulder and find that I can do it easily. I can probably move my entire back easily, as long as I'm willing to sacrifice some air.

But what could I do to distract him enough to make his grip on my hands loosen enough so that I can break free and whale at him?

I remember that Nellcis would always kiss him to make him shut up or calm down, and she could do that since they've been dating for over a year.

I could do that, and it would probably work. Not because he'd like it, but because it would shock him just enough.

No, I could never do that to Nellcis, even though she'd probably never know.

I go with a different approach. I lean up, and Mark's knee digs into me more. I part my lips, notice his shocked expression, and then go through with it: I bite down on his nose, hard. He screams. He jumps off of me, and I scramble away from him. "You're a total nutjob!" I yell at him.

"And to you!" he screams back, crying.

A Peacekeeper charges into the room. We both pretend to be laughing a something funny that the other said. We know that if one of Crimmons' dummies catches us beating on each other, we'll be punished severely.

"What are you two doing?" he barks at us.

I smile at the big idiot. "Just hanging out."

"On the floor?" he asks. I get the feeling that he thinks we were doing other things than fighting.

"Yes."

"Well," he cries indignantly. "No more funny business!" He hauls me up by the arm and half-leads, half-drags me to my room. He slams the door.

I look at my wrists. They're a sickly blue. I try moving them, and then squeal from pain.

Why, Mark? Why?

* * *

Training is harder today. It's our last training session before we show off to the Gamemakers to get our scores, and our trainers are being rough.

Mark and I made up yesterday, with one condition, of course. We follow my plan. I know he doesn't like it, and is still mad about it, but he's letting me be.

I'm throwing spears at dummies, missing most of the time. I hit one in the head once, but didn't aim there again because when I did hit it there, Mark moaned and fainted. A Peacekeeper shot his little brother in the head four months ago. These Games are going to be rough for him.

Right now, Mark is practicing with a bow and arrow, and may I say, he's quite decent at it. I'm not saying that he's Katniss good, more like in the middle of Katniss and Glimmer.

I get tired of throwing spears and decide to go over to the hand-to-hand combat station, where I can throw punches instead. The first thing I notice is the huge trainer. Am I supposed to fight this guy? Surely, none of the tributes are this size – hopefully.

"Are you ready?" the human building of a trainer asks. I nod warily.

He charges. I stand there stupidly for a moment, but when he nears, I sidestep. He turns and grabs my wrists, and I'm already at a disadvantage, my wrists still hurt. I remember something my father taught me when I was little, and try it, even though I know it'll hurt. I yank my arms away, turn as if to run, then turn back and punch him in the face. He yells out and grasps his nose, so I take the opportunity to kick the back of his knees. He falls. I kick him in the chest, and he's on his back. I drive my knee under his breastbone and push on his neck with the foot of my other leg.

He gasps and tears prickle in his eyes. "Surren–" he coughs. I jump off of him, and he just lies on the floor and wheezes for a while.

I see Mark staring at me. _Holy shit_, he mouths. I shrug, embarrassed. I look up and notice the Gamemakers for the first time. They're all looking at me. Crimmons is smiling. I bite back a terrible sneer and help the hurt trainer off of the floor.

He puts his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. "You," he coughs again and then walks away. Estil tells us that it's time to go. I dash to the elevator. Mark jumps in with me just as the door closes. I feel as if my life is a routine.

I think I saw Richard, last year's victor, with the Gamemakers.

Hopefully, next year, Mark will join him.

* * *

"Catherine!" Marie shrieks at me. "You are not allowed to injure your trainers. They don't deserve it."

She's been criticizing me ever since I sat down for dinner. Whether it be about my hair, my complexion, my voice, my posture, my fighting skills; she just wants to yell at me! I lose my temper with her. "Ironic that you might say that, Marie. Being that we don't deserve to be shoved into an arena to fight to our deaths."

She sniffs, probably offended. Everyone in the room has their eyes on me – for the second time today – with expressions of shock – for the second time today.

"I think you're not the tribute you see yourself as, Catherine." Mr. Jenkins says this, and I'm momentarily surprised that he called me by my actual name.

"What the heck does that mean?" I snap at him. He doesn't answer.

I scarf down the rest of my plate and stand up to go. "You're excused." Marie says sarcastically. I sneer at her.

"Don't be rude, Kaliegh." Mr. Jenkins tells me.

"Seriously?" Mark says, "You just called her Catherine."


	6. Matching Eyes

**Worked long and hard on this, and I think it's pretty exciting.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Mark and I are standing just outside the Training Center, waiting for the girl from District 11 to finish her private session with the Gamemakers. We weren't allowed to see the other tributes, so we waited on our floor for hours, waiting for our turn to impress the Gamemakers.

I am extremely nervous. My training suit is dense with sweat. I need a good score. I need to survive long enough in the Games to ensure that Mark wins. I can't enter the Games with a 2 or a 3. How would that look? How would that benefit Mark, or me, for that matter? I haven't even decided what to do. Should I throw a knife? Identify plants and their uses? Beat the life out of another trainer?

An automated voice catches my attention. "Mark Cronnis, District 12." My eyes dart over to Mark. He sucks in a breath and stands from his seat.

"Good luck," I whisper. He nods and goes through the door. I continue to pace.

_I wonder what Mark is going to do,_ I think to myself. _He should throw a spear. He was good at that._

After only three minutes I hear, "Catherine Roys, District 12."

Mark is done already? Maybe he hit the target directly. Maybe he didn't need to do any more to prove his skills to the Gamemakers.

I open the door slightly to peek through. The Gamemakers are laughing. A few of them have ridiculous expressions. Some of them are flailing their arms. What a weird bunch of inhumane people.

I notice that Richard isn't with them this time.

I put on a brave face and step into the room. The Gamemakers' laughter dies down and they turn their attention to me. I smile. I see a trainer by the hand-to-hand combat station, and I approach him. He's not the man that was there two days ago, but he has the same build, so I'll still be able to attain my objective.

I stretch my arms and twist my waist. "You ready?" I ask the trainer. He nods slowly. He must've heard about what the crazy girl from 12 did to that innocent trainer.

I charge at him. When I'm within an arm's length of him, he swings at me. I drop to the floor and kick him in the gut. He doesn't fall and grabs my feet, then flips me onto my back. He makes a move to punch me, but I kick him in the face before he can, and he stumbles back. The Gamemakers cry their pain for the man and cheer for the butt-kicking blonde. I jump up and throw myself at his shoulder, and we fall. He squirms beneath me, grabs my arms, and flips us, so that he's on top of me. I fidget for a second, then decide to fight dirty. I knee him in the groin. The Gamemakers cry out again. I push the trainer off of me and onto his stomach. My movements are slow now, there's no need for me to rush. I've already won. I just need to make him surrender. I sit on his back and pull leg his far back.

He gasps, "I surrender!" I let go and get off of him. I don't help him up, showing the Gamemakers that I'd have no problem leaving a dead body.

Well, look at that, I'm already hurting people and the Games haven't even begun.

I walk away from the station and raise my eyes to the Gamemakers, waiting to be dismissed.

"Good job, Miss Roys," Crimmons says in a raspy voice. "You may go."

I turn on my heels and glide through the room.

* * *

I storm onto my floor and into the sitting room to see Mark savagely biting his nails on the couch.

That's not good.

"What's up?" I ask him, not wanting to know the answer.

He looks up at me in panic. "Catherine, I'm going to die." He stands up quickly. "I did terribly. I'm going to _die_."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I place my hand on his shoulder and push him back onto the couch. "You're gonna be fine." He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. "What happened?"

"I–I shot an arrow, b–but I missed the target."

"That's not so bad. How much did you miss by?"

He groans, "Seven feet." My eyes widen from shock and I sink into the couch along with him.

"Seven feet," I whisper in astonishment. "B–b–but," I stutter, "But you were so good the other day. I," I take in a deep breath. "I don't understand."

Mr. Jenkins walks into the room then, with a wide smile on his face. "Hello, you two," he says cheerfully. "How'd you do in your private sessions?" Mark groans again and runs into the hall. I hear his door slam shut. "Well, that was odd." Mr. Jenkins plops himself on the couch and turns his head to me. "How did your private session go, Kathy?"

I barely register his question. "Great," I mumble.

"Well, fantastic!" he exclaims. He leans close to me for a second, and I smell wine on his breath.

Well, that explains things.

"What's wrong with Mark?" he asks me drowsily.

"Nothing," I lie.

"Good." Mr. Jenkins gets up without much balance and begins to walk away. "Tell him that dinner will be served in ten minutes!" he calls over his shoulder. I nod absently.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. No. That's why the Gamemakers were laughing! And they weren't just randomly flinging their arms; they were pretending to shoot an arrow! Oh, they were making fun of Mark! Oh, they're going to give him a terrible score.

"Oh, no," I say aloud.

I heave myself up from the couch and walk slowly to Mark's door, feeling sick. I knock quietly. "What?" I hear as a muffled answer.

"Dinner in ten," I say softly.

When I enter my room, I immediately lock the door and rip my training suit off. I kick it away and go to the bathroom, desperately in need of a shower. I turn the shower to cold, wanting the hot sweat off of me. I scrub away the grime of the Training Center from my skin, then just stand under the showerhead with my head bent down.

I quickly don in a fuchsia dress and head to the dining room. Everybody else is already seated, including Fredrik and Mark's stylist. They're all waiting for me.

As I sit down, Marie says, "Late, as usual, Catherine." I roll my eyes.

"Whatever," I mumble.

"Now, what did I say about being rude?" she snaps at me.

I snarl and prepare to respond with a snide remark, but Fredrik cuts me off. "No, no, ladies. Let's not fight. We need to have an important discussion." He turns to me. "Now, what did you do in your private session?"

I smile, knowing that what I did will drive Marie nuts. "I beat the crap out of a trainer. Crimmons thought I did wonderfully." Mark groans softly at my words, and I feel bad. Crimmons thought he did terribly.

Everybody else smiles though, some even clap. "Perfect," Mark's stylist says. "What about you, Mark?"

Everyone's eyes turn to Mark. He looks at his plate, and I know how ashamed he is. Mark always tries to impress other people, no matter how annoying they are. That's why he'll be the perfect victor.

He sighs. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh," Fredrik says in his squeaky voice. "Well, then we'll just talk about your attire for the big interviews tomorrow." Both he and Mark's stylist become more visibly exuberant at his words.

_Oh_, _yikes_, I think to myself.

Fredrik looks at me excitedly. "So, Catherine, I was thinking that since you're so good at wrestling –– apparently –– that the dress you'll wear should show of your curves and make your shoulders look sharp. – "Uh, okay," I say, not really knowing what that means. "But," I begin to declare, "My dress will be _solid_ fabric. None of that see-through crap, you got it?"

Fredrik glances back at me sheepishly. "Alright." I nod approvingly, thinking of how ridiculous Capitol people are.

* * *

The television has been turned on and we're all seated around it, waiting for the results of our private sessions.

District One comes on first, but the faces are blocked out. They both get a 9. District Two comes on next. The girl gets a 7. The boy gets a 4.

District Three really surprises me. The boy gets a 5, but the girl gets an 11.

The rest go by. The girl from Six gets a 3. The boys from Nine and Ten get a 6. The girl from Nine gets an 8. The girl from 11 gets a 9.  
Then the big moment arrives, we're up. Mark goes on first, and we can see his face, since he's our tribute. He looks angry and scared.

I look over to the real Mark to see that he's biting his nails and squinting his eyes, though they'd be closed if he didn't have to watch.

Kilmor Jones, the Claudius Templesmith of Digital Panem, looks down at the sheet of paper on his desk and winces. "The male tribute from District Twelve gets a 2." A giant, bright 2 flashes next to Mark's face on the screen. The entire room, save me and Mark, gasp. Mark squeezes his eyes completely shut.

I can just imagine the cheers that the Careers are giving right now. A boy from Twelve, the most hated district, gets a 2? Oh, joy for them! It'll be much too easy for them to get rid of him!

My face appears on the screen. I look determined and angry, and as though I'm glaring at the viewers. The room quiets again, so that we'll all hear my score. "And the female tribute from Twelve," Kilmor smiles. "With a ten." The 10 flashes next to me, and I let out a breath that I didn't realize I was holding. Everybody congratulates me, except for Marie, who is too busy hugging Mark. I guess we know who her favorite tribute is.

But anyway, I got the second best score of these Games. The only problem is, everybody will be out for my blood.

* * *

The dress matches my eyes. Fredrik didn't give me a see-through dress this time, though I wish this design showed less side-boob.

The dress is a dark green that goes all the way down to my ankles and the neckline is around my collarbone. It opens in the back, forming a long V, but it only shows my back, not my backside.

I'm waiting in the hall with Mark for the boy from Eleven to finish his interview with Eleanor Chimes, the Caesar Flickerman of Digital Panem. Richard passes by us, but only looks at me, staring at me hard.

I hear the buzzer go off somewhere, in another world, and Richard breaks his eye contact with me. I become dizzy. My heels teeter under me, and Mark has to steady me.

I swallow the lump in my throat, squeeze his hand for support, and then make my way onto the stage. The crowd cheers for me, and the smile comes naturally. I shake hands with Eleanor, and we both take our seats. The crowd dies down.

"Welcome, Catherine," Eleanor says gleefully. "I love your dress."

"Oh, thank you," I reply. I think of complimenting Eleanor, but decide that I don't want to lie on live television. Eleanor is quite old, but has had so much plastic surgery that it's hard to tell. But because of it, her skin is a sickly blue.

"So," Eleanor begins. "I would like to talk about your volunteering for the Hunger Games. Have you wanted to be in the Games for some time?"

I make a decision now. I'm going to pretend to be a Career. How else would I explain my volunteering? How else could I explain my 10? I am not going to be Katniss Everdeen.

"Yes," I lie, despite my prior beliefs of not lying. "I've always wanted to know the thrill of it, ever since I read the books."

"Oh, very well. And you seem well prepared with your score of 10."

I lean back. "Let's just say that I know what I'm doing."

The crowd roars in approval. I begin to laugh. They'll probably think it's because of my brutality that they so adore, but it's really because these people are so simple-minded –– so savage –– that it makes me superior by far, even when I'm pretending to be a Career, and it's laughable.

"So," Eleanor starts after the crowd has quieted. "What's your strategy for the Games?"

I grin. "What it is for any human of anytime, anywhere: to live."

I say this because it isn't something that a dull Career would say. I'm showing everybody that I can be tough and intelligent. And when I enter the Games, they'll see that I can be compassionate, too, because beside the fact that I'm not actually a Career, I'm not going to let my friend die.

It doesn't get much of a buzz from the audience, but the Gamemakers look worried. I'm not as brainwashed as they thought.

"Now," Eleanor says, "For my final question, what are you looking forward to most in the Games?"

I pretend to ponder for a moment, even though I already know my answer. "My birthday."

The entire City Circle gasps at my answer, as if it's somehow shocking that someone could be born in mid to late August. I decided to point out my birthday, so that I might get sponsors, because who would want someone to die on their birthday?

"Really? What day?"

"August fifteenth," I state.

My buzzer goes off as the murmur of the audience grows. Eleanor and I both stand up while the crowd screams their last goodbye to me. I leave the stage via the other side, hoping to see the other tributes. All I see is an empty room with the television on, broadcasting live. I sit down in a rather uncomfortable green chair and watch an eleven-inch Mark walk onto the stage.

The crowd applauds, but not as much as they did for me.

"Hello, Mark," Eleanor says as if she's speaking to a small child. "How are ya?"

"Uh, I'm great." Mark smiles wide, but she still looks at him a little sadly.

_This really isn't going as planned_, I say in my head_. How are we supposed to make him look like the future victor if things keep going like this? People will sooner think I'm going to be the victor! And he'll need sponsors after I die!_

"Now, Mark, how old are you?" Mark tells them that he's sixteen and I hear a few people in the crowd laugh. Mark scowls at them.

And, oh, Nellcis must be weeping on the floor. Her boyfriend, doing so terribly and the Games have not even begun. Percy though, Percy must be jumping around in happiness because I did so well and Mark is doing so badly. Percy has always hated Mark.

My family is crying.

"I have a really good plan for the Games," Mark says quickly. I suck in a breath, expecting the worst. "I plan to fight with a spear. I'm quite good at that." More of the crowd laughs now and Eleanor raises an eyebrow. Mark stutters. "I–I got a 2 because I shot an arrow, which I'm not good at." The Gamemakers groan loud enough for everyone to hear them. Mark has just disobeyed a big rule. You cannot expose what was done in your private session to the public.

Mark is shiny with sweat now.

I start crying because this is awful. I had a plan. It was a good plan, and now here he is, ruining it! I was completely prepared to die so that he could live, and he's screwing everything up!

_What am I going to do?_

My crying blocks out the rest of his interview, even though I try very hard to stop the blubbering.

He enters the room after I hear the loud buzzer. He's breathing heavily.

His shoulders slump. "Let's go to bed. We'll need our rest if I'm going to die tomorrow and you have to watch."

I stomp over to the elevator in the hall.

* * *

I woke up crying.

I dreamt that all the other tributes were my friends. Marclene included, who's not even alive.

I was dragged to the small airplane that would take me and Mark to our Launch Rooms, pajamas and bed head and all.

The flight was terrible. The tracker hurt like no other going into my arm. It still does. And there were no mini packets of salty peanuts.

Now, the Launch Room is a pale yellow, smelling musty. Fredrik is zipping up the last set of clothing that I'll ever wear.

He walks me over to the mirror. It's like my training suit, but is more billowy, letting the air go right through the fabric. Do they want us all to freeze to death? The short-sleeved shirt is grey, and the black, hoodless jacket has the same outer-fabric as my rain coat, so I expect some rain.

I have on leather combat boots, so I twist my foot around to test the flexibility of them.

The pants are annoying though. They're too tight, but I suppose they'll be good for running or kicking someone in the face. But also seem easy to rip.

My blonde hair is up in a ponytail and, supposedly, I'm ready.

Fredrik has to pull me over to the metal plate. I stand on it, and the cold from it seeps through my shoes.

"Any last thing you'd like to say to me, darlin'?"

I look at him with my sad eyes in my sad face. "Thank you for the dresses." I didn't really mean it, but, hey, what else should I have said? Those could be the last words I ever speak.

The glass cylinder lowers around me then, and the metal plate starts to travel up. My breathing is heavy, and I wonder if I could suffocate in here before I make it to the arena. That would be nice.

I see light, after what feels like an eternal darkness.

I'm in the arena.

I hear Kilmor Jones's voice boom. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Second Annual Hunger Games begin!"

The sixty seconds start. I count subconsciously in my head.

_Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven . . ._

To my right there are evergreen mountains that look difficult –– but not impossible –– to climb.

_Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight . . ._

To my left and my back there are thick forests.

_Forty-five, forty-four . . . _

In front of me is the golden Cornucopia, spilling with supplies and weapons. Beyond it is an ocean with a small island that looks to be three-hundred meters from shore.

_Thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty-four, thirty-three . . . _

I scan my fellow tributes. I become very uneasy when I notice that more than half of them are glaring at me. I see Mark on the opposite side of the Cornucopia from me. If I make a sign to him, everyone will see it. I just hope we can come up with a mutual plan within two seconds.

_Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen . . ._

I see a boy, older than me, that is standing two people away from me, staring straight at my breasts and licking his lips. I nearly spit.

_Eleven, ten, nine . . ._

I look to my left for less disturbing tributes and spot a little boy with golden hair. I catch my breath.

_Seven . . ._

I squint my eyes, willing it to be a trick of my mind.

_Six . . ._

It isn't.

_Five . . ._

It's Peter. It's my cousin, Peter. My twelve-year-old cousin, Peter.

_Four . . . _

It's my little cousin. I have to save him!

_ Three . . ._

There is my little cousin, and I have no plan to save him.

_Two . . ._

I have no plan.

_One._

The gong sounds, and it's anarchy.

I run to my little cousin.


	7. Dead Friends

**This is the last time that I will say this: I do not own The Hunger Games.**

* * *

There's a giant KILL-ME sign on my back. Quite literally, actually, with the number 12 written in large letters on the back of my jacket.

I have to run past tributes that are going towards the Cornucopia and then pass very close to it myself to reach Peter.

After only five seconds of being off my metal plate, a blonde girl that looks like she's a couple years older than me jumps at me. I pick up my pace — which is already pretty fast — so she ends up falling onto the ground behind me. I exhale in relief.

But it doesn't last.

An arrow and a knife coming from different directions simultaneously fly one and two inches from my face.

I have to stop dead in my tracks for a minute so I don't trample over the girl from 7 murdering a boy on the ground.

I assume that several people are dead already, and am glad that Peter is staying out of the way of the Cornucopia, so no one has noticed him.

Yet.

He sees me. The surprise shows in his eyes. He begins to smile and jump up and down. Then he starts to call my name and wave.

I motion wildly for him to stop. If he's seen waving at the girl from 12, he'll be dead before I can reach him.

"Stop!" I yell at him, but my voice is lost over the horrifying sounds of fighting and crying children.

He does stop though, when I'm within roughly four meters of him. He looks scared. Before I can begin to wonder why, something slams into me and crushes me against the side of the Cornucopia.

It's the creep that was staring at me during the minute before the Games. I don't know what district he's from, but I know that he's tall, muscular, has several scars on his face, and is rudely grabbing at my chest.

"'Sup, 12," he says to me. He licks the side of my face. "What's going on?"

I sneer at him in disgust and try to escape him. My squirming only seems to spur him on, though. He rubs his crouch up and down my leg.

This is not going to work. I need to get rid of this guy so I can focus on Peter. This guy needs to go away.

He backs up just a bit a grabs my wrists. I think to kick him, but before I can, he flinches and a blade peeks through his abdomen. His eyes lose their taunting light. I rip my arms away from him and shove him to the ground. He soaks the yellow grass beneath him with blood. I see that he's the boy from 11.

Peter is holding a bloody knife. He's holding it awkwardly, pointing it away from him with white knuckles.

"You killed him," I say dumbly.

He continues to stare at the dead boy at his feet. "I had to," he says quietly. "He was gonna kill you."

I take the knife away from him and kiss him on the forehead.

_He was going to do worse than that,_ I think to myself.

"Come on," I grab his arm and push him to run towards the forest. "You need to go the forest, and climb the closest tree after running for twenty minutes, got it?" He nods. "Go!" I yell. He turns and runs, and I see that he's from District 2. Richard is his mentor.

He has a mentor that's a victor.

I can't afford to stand and watch him, so I just hope that he makes it and turn my attention back to the bloodbath. I see Mark with a large backpack hanging on his shoulders. He's running away from the Cornucopia. Away from me.

I make a wild dash for him. Halfway across the Cornucopia, I recognize the brunette from 7 while she swings a sword at me. I slice her throat as I run by.

An arrow glides through the top of my right shoulder, leaving a bloody gash. It lands in front of me and I jump over it.

Once ten meters from Mark, I yell out to him. He turns his head and spots me, then motions for me to follow. I speed up. We meet at the beginning of the forest.

"Follow me," I say hoarsely. I don't look to see if he does, but continue to run anyway. I know that even after twenty minutes of running we'll have to go a little ways to the left to reach where Peter is hopefully hiding.

But it turns out that we don't have to wonder where he is for so long because I hear him scream. His shouting is coming from far left of me. I run towards it.

I hear other tributes rustling around, but avoid them and hope that they'll avoid me. I hear several loud footsteps, and before I can realize where they're coming from, a girl runs straight into me.

She's a tall, Hispanic girl with a baby face. She doesn't seem to be scared for some reason, though. Then, I see why.

Two older teenaged boys emerge from the woods behind her. The tall Asian boy stands in front of her protectively, and I assume that they're from the same district. We stare at each other for a few moments, but I look away when I hear Peter scream again. I run towards his general direction again. I hope that the heavy footsteps behind me are Mark's.

I rip into a clearing to see the Careers standing over a bleeding Peter.

And who else is their leader, but Marclene?

* * *

She's older than Marclene would be, though. And much taller. But she looks _so_ like her!

I can't even move. I'm too struck-dumb.

They have the same tan skin, the same dark, messy hair, and nearly the same glint in their eyes. But this girl is different. This girl's eyes scream that she wouldn't have a problem with killing someone. Someone like Peter.

I lift my long knife, still wet with blood.

"Hey, 12!" the Anti-Marclene shouts at me. She looks back to her buddies and they all laugh.

"Back away from the boy," I say, my features hard. "Or would you like to know how I got that ten?"

Anti-Marclene snorts. "Please, I'm not afraid of something as small or frightened-looking as you. Besides, I got the el-ev-en." She punctuates each syllable of the word, trying to scare me. And I gotta admit, I'm a little more scared than I was a few minutes ago, when I was only _at the Cornucopia in the Hunger Games!_

I open my mouth to speak, but the strawberry blonde from 4 cuts me off. "Do you want me to just get rid of her, Arika?" She's holding an axe in her hand and the thing is, she looks _comfortable_ with it in her hands.

Arika shrugs. "Sure."

Shock just barely registers with me before an axe is flying at my head. I duck just in time, but I still hear it ripple the wind by my ear.

"What the-" I start, but decide to run rather than talk when Little Miss Evil Strawberry Shortcake comes after me with two long knives. I nearly trip over the boy from 4 with a metal spear in his back and come up with a plan in a new record time. I throw my knife into the woods (I know, sounds like a stupid move) — did someone just yell? — and trade it for the spear. I turn around, swinging the heavy spear like a bat. The girl from four falls to the ground, knocked out cold.

I stand there for a moment, spear clenched in my hands. Then, a tall Afrikan-American boy — more like a man, though — with a bleeding arm emerges from the trees behind me. He's holding my knife. It's dripping with fresh blood. His blood.

_Oh_, he's going to kill me. And why wouldn't he? It would be _so easy_. Too easy.

I have never felt so close to death. He's right behind me—right behind! All he has to do is slide the knife through my back.

I turn to look at him. His brown eyes are staring coldly at me, and he grips the knife harder.

But, then.

Arika starts to laugh. She starts to laugh at the tall boy because he has a cut on his arm.

He turns to her. And in a flash, he advances on her.

He thinks she threw the knife.

Her face slackens. She knows she's made a wrong move. A fatal move.

I, on the other hand, am extremely relieved. I even take this as an opportunity to lunge at the boy puppy-guarding Peter and thrust my spear through his chest. I shove his dying body out of my way, disgusted with myself. I haul Peter up by his arm, carefully avoiding the blood-stained area on his chest.

The girl from 2, Peter's district partner, jumps at me, but I kick her squarely in the stomach. I look back, searching for Mark. He's skirting around the chaos towards us, but what's in the center of it all is truly interesting. The dark-skinned boy from 10 stabs Arika in the leg. She winces and cries out from pain. Then he runs. She falls and cries.

I can't help but think of how Marclene died, even though this is so different. Marclene died because she was hungry. Because she let her little brothers have her food.

Marclene died honorably.

This girl will not. She is a murderer.

Then again, so am I.

* * *

We run for hours.

All we have is Mark's backpack and my completely unrealistic spear. Who would ever really be able to use a _metal spear? _It's extremely difficult just to be able to thrust or swing it. I can't imagine what it would be like to try to throw it.

But, we're free.

We're free of the other tributes! It isn't cold. It's a little hot, but I'd rather be a little hot rather than freezing to death.

We're free.

The trees eventually give way to a plain. The plain leads to an identical forest though, and I don't think it would be wise to camp out in an open plain.

I'm at the head of our little pack, running faster than the two boys. Halfway across the field, it looks like someone's running at me.

No, it looks like _I'm_ running at me.

Before I think to stop, me and I collide into sparks.

I fall to the ground, electricity buzzing around in me.

It hurts.

We reached the border of the arena.

It _hurts_.

The boys are looking down at me.

_Oh_, it hurts.

I think Peter is crying.

It. _Hurts_.

My mind calms as the pain slowly ebbs away.

But then I realize.

So does my consciousness.

Tears well in my closing eyes.

We are not free. We are in a cage. All we are are little pawns in their terribly terrifying game. There is no escape.

Not even for the victor.

We can never be free.


End file.
